


Black and White

by disillusionist9



Series: Choose Dare [91]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artist Dean Thomas, Daily Prophet, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Reporter Romilda Vane, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:38:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disillusionist9/pseuds/disillusionist9
Summary: Drabble #78 of 100 | Working for the Daily Prophet can be as awful as it sounds, but there's always a moment of escape.





	

Romilda shook her left hand, flexing the fingers slowly in a pattern that mimicked the piano lessons years in her past. The utter tripe she was writing wasn't worth the early onset of carpal tunnel she was flirting with, so after a huff that rustled the papers on her desk, she shot up to take a walk around the office.

The Daily Prophet was nowhere near its heyday, its pre-First Wizarding War greatness, but the buzz of conversation and constant flow of interviewees kept the paper in the black. Years of reporting anything and everything meant it would take years to reform what news was reported on the ten page daily print. Though, if management stayed in the same direction, it would never change at all.

Romilda's desk sat at the crest of a sea of offices. Her march towards the closest exit door of the building brought her past dozens of desks with columnists, photographers, and cartoonists hunched over their work or staring at the ceiling muttering to themselves. She snorted quietly, a private laugh at the expense of her coworkers. No amount of praying or begging would help them here. Nothing about this industry was black and white except the pages the news was printed on.

As she pushed her hip into the door to the alleyway behind the Prophet, Romilda flipped open her pack of cigarettes with her free hand not gripping a coffee mug, and rolled her eyes at the sight. Where she'd walked into the office with ten, she now counted eight.

"You lasted a full three hours this time. Must be a new record."

Dean Thomas leaned against the brick wall, his feet planted into the soft dirt to brace himself. His fingers pinched around a pilfered fag as he took a long drag.

Romilda lifted an eyebrow expectantly and pulled the smoke into her lungs as he lit hers for her. At this angle it was easy to see the faded lines of ink on his fingers, likely leftover from drawing the night before. Usually the ink artists used for sketch submissions took four days to fully wash off. Her coffee wasn't as warm as she liked, so she pulled a face after taking a sip, sticking her tongue out for a moment.

"That coffee _tastes_ three hours old, that's for sure."

"Want me to warm it up?" Dean offered.

Romilda shook her head, waving the hand holding the cigarette a bit before bringing it to her mouth again. Smoke poured from her mouth as she said, "Once it's cold the taste is ruined."

"Pretentious," Dean said with a smirk. He ground the extinguished butt of his second cigarette with his heel, then turned to face her, crossing his arms against the wall, the dark fabric of his jumper picking up bits of dirt Romilda itched to wipe off his arms. He caught the way her eyes spotted the flecks of white against the black, and chuckled, working to brush it off himself. "I'm going in to brew a fresh pot. Thanks for the smokes."

"You're not welcome, thief," she said, openly watching the way his trousers draped over his arse as he walked away.

She spent another few minutes in the slightly chilly air outside, finishing another cigarette to keep up with Dean, and tried to think of another way she could work a story about an influx of vampires in the United Kingdom that wouldn't make the public go into blind panic.


End file.
